I had a strange experience this past Friday night. I was all alone with nothing to do. I’ve spent 24 years married and 18 of those raising kids. I can’t remember what it’s like to be alone with nothing to do! Thankfully, I got over it when I remembered that I had some movies dialed up on Netflix that I hadn’t yet seen … you know, the kinds that don’t have the words “Disney” and “Pixar” on them. Remember, I’ve been a mom for a looong time!

So I sat down to watch an older film I hadn’t yet seen. No, not the Battleship Potemkin … I saw that one in college. I watched Cry, the Beloved Country. Many of you have probably already seen it (like I said, I’m a little behind), but for those of you who haven’t it is the story of two men living in South Africa in the 1940’s. Richard Harris plays a wealthy, European landholder who lives in the rural Natal Province. James Earl Jones plays an Anglican priest living in the same region. Both have sons and both sons leave their fathers to journey to a far country: Johannesburg. Both sons reject the ways of their fathers. The wealthy son of privilege rejects his father’s bigotry and imperialism to work for racial reconciliation. The son of the Anglican priest rejects his father’s Christian morals and becomes a petty criminal. The father’s stories intersect when the son of the Anglican priest kills the landholder’s son. It was rather ironic to think I was watching this knowing the gospel reading was on the Prodigal Son this week! No coincidences in the Kingdom, are there?

In a scene near the end of the film, after the son of the Anglican priest is convicted of murder, the older priest confides in his priest colleague who has helped him in his search for lost family members in Johannesburg. The old priest tells his friend that if there is no mercy for his son and he is to die for this crime, he will go up to the mountain to pray. He then reveals he’s only done this twice in his life: once when his son Absalom was ill as a young boy and once when he was tempted to commit adultery. The old priest then says, “I have never confessed that to anyone before.”

Confession: the laying bare of the truth of our lives. It is a sacrament of the Church and at Grace it becomes quite prominent during Lent as we open our worship with the Penitential Order

“Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep,
we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts, we have offended against thy holy laws, we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done. And there is no health in us.”

OK, I know you are thinking, “Wait a minute. I don’t remember that last line.” That’s right, you don’t. It was part of the original prayer Archbishop Thomas Cranmer wrote in 1552 and it was in the prayer up until the 1979 revision when it was stricken. Call me “old school,” but I think we are the poorer for it being removed. There is no health in us. We are for all intents and purposes … dead. And death is at the heart of the story of the Prodigal Son.

Episcopal priest and author Robert Farrar Capon calls the parable of the Prodigal Son a “festival of death.” What a juxtaposition of words! He notes that everyone, with the exception of the older brother, dies in this story – at least figuratively. It opens with the death of the father. “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them.” Arrogant little twit, isn’t he? Even today we bristle at the impudence of this son. He essentially says, “Put the will into effect right now and drop dead old man.” And the amazing thing is … the father does it. He divides his property – in Greek his “bios” (from which we get the word “biology”) which means “life” – between them. He cuts himself in two and pours his life out … and drops dead (at least socially). Both sons receive their inheritance – the older getting his two thirds share and the younger his one third according to the law.

The younger one then journeys to a far country where he squanders his property in dissolute living. Translations vary on this: profligate living, dissolute living, riotous living. But Luke is speaking about much more than blowing the cash. He says the son squandered his ouisias – his substance. He wasted his substance – he wasted himself: physically, emotionally, spiritually … and the money ran out. Oh I’m sure he had a grand old time: booze, broads, gambling … whatever vices you can imagine, they haven’t really changed in 2,000 years. He wastes himself and hits, in the parlance of addiction and recovery, rock bottom. A famine comes on the land and he is reduced to taking a job slopping hogs. For a nice Jewish boy, this is as low as you can go! His life, whatever he may have tried to make of it, was over. He was dead. And he figures this out as he eyes up the hog slop and thinks, “Hey, I could eat that.” He comes to himself – he wises up – and realizes his father’s hired hands have plenty to eat. He knows he can’t return and expect to be treated like a son, so he cooks up a plan. He’ll try to wangle his way in as a hired hand. Maybe the old boy will fall for it. He even comes up with his line: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.”

But as he returns, the stench of the pig sty still clinging to his body, his father sees him and runs to greet him. How scandalous! No self-respecting father would do that to a son who had dissed him so badly. But wait … the father is dead. He doesn’t care about appearances! All he cares about is extravagant love … a love that can only be set free when we admit we are dead. The father throws his arms around his son and the son then dies on the spot. He says, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” Period. Full stop. End of sentence. No more conniving. No more games. He’s dead and he knows it. That is confession!

Confession is the admission we are dead and no effort on our part can save us. Confession is not an apology. Too often there is confusion about this. If your confession prayer consists of a litany of all your personal peccadillos and screw ups only to find that next week, your list is about the same as it was last week, then you are stuck in apology mode. Confession is when we say, “Almighty God, I am dead as evidenced by …” and then fill in the blank with those things done and left undone. When we admit we are dead, and only when we admit it, can God’s grace ever have a chance of entering our lives. If we don’t admit we are dead, we’ll never let the grace in because we think we can do life on our terms. Once you admit you are dead and God’s grace enters your life, then and only then can real healing begin, real reconciliation happen and real love be set free. It’s only then when the real celebration – the party – can begin.

So now we have a dead father, a dead younger son, a dead fatted calf, and a big old party going on. Then … cue the music … in walks the older son. Captain Buzzkill himself reporting for duty! This son hasn’t figured out he’s dead. And is he ticked off! He’s been the dutiful son, the one who played by the rules. He has a whole balance sheet of debits and credits. If there’s a “brownie point” system, he’s got it. And the favor shown to this younger son really burns his backside. You see, he wants to keep score. And before we admit we are dead, we want to keep score too. We’ll keep our own balance sheet of who wronged us and how we’re going to get even, won’t we? But the father, after getting the upbraiding by his older son, says to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life …” Your brother has dropped dead and come to the party. He leaves us wondering whether or not the older son will drop dead too. Drop dead to an egocentric life of score keeping and resentments. Drop dead so that he can truly live. Will he drop dead? More importantly … will you … drop … dead?

Is it just me, or are there times you just want to put a question mark after the Gospel proclamation: “The Gospel of the Lord??” Or even after the responsorial: “Praise to you Lord Christ??” Today is one of those Gospel readings. Blood mingled with pagan sacrifices, towers falling on people, cutting down fruit trees. Not the stuff of comfort to be sure.

This is one of those “hard readings” of the Gospel where judgment and wrath seem to be forefront. But the problem with this reading is we are stepping into the middle of a conversation which begins way back at Luke 12.1. Jesus is traveling towards Jerusalem and there is an ongoing conversation happening. Jesus is giving a long talk punctuated by a series of parables and teachings. He starts out with parables and teachings relevant to the current times: Parable of the rich fool, anxieties about earthly things, storing treasures in heaven. But then he moves on to talking about reading the signs of the times and necessity to repent or perish in preparation for the end times. He then closes this discourse with the parable of the fig tree. Repentance is a recurring theme in Luke’s gospel – he talks about it more than any other gospel writer. Repentance, in the Greek, means to “turn around” – to pull a “180” so to speak. It is the process by which we turn and return to God.

The crowd tells Jesus of some Galileans who were killed by Pilate and their blood was mingled with pagan sacrifices. In an honor/shame society, this was a really good way to shame one’s enemies. Jesus in his response essentially says that these people were no worse sinners than anyone else (including his audience). He even offers up another shocking example of 18 people killed when a tower fell on them (sounds like something out of a tabloid newspaper, doesn’t it?). He says their sins are no worse than that of others. In these two examples, Jesus essentially tells them that sin is a universal condition and tragedies happen. And we know that sin can be the cause of tragedy and suffering. But Jesus does break the connection between tragedies and punishments. These tragedies were not a punishment by God on these people.

What is curious, and I confess I don’t really know where Jesus is going with this, is his linking these instances to repentance: “But unless you repent, you will perish as they did.” It almost sounds like Jesus is dangling a carrot with some divine cause and effect – if you repent, you won’t perish as they did. Now we know from our experience this doesn’t make any sense. We know all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. We also know that tragedies strike whether one repents or not. I confess I’m not clear at all about this link Jesus appears to be making, but I cannot accept it as some quid pro quo transactional theology.

We do know there will be a time of judgment when God will establish perfect justice – a time when all things will be set right. There is both some comfort and disquietude about this. While we long for God’s perfect justice and trust it will set creation right, we also live with the discomfort of knowing our actions, especially how we treat each other and creation, will be judged. Jesus may well be using the example of these tragedies to remind his hearers that judgment will come and since they are still alive, they have the opportunity to repent and turn back to God – unlike those who have already died.

Jesus’ call to repentance is a reminder that repenting, turning around, is a lifelong and constant process. It is not a one time “repent or perish” idea. Instead, it is a day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute thing. The way the verb repent appears in the Greek implies it is not a sure thing that we will repent, but if we do, it needs to be an ongoing action – a lifestyle of repentance. We must keep turning back to God continuously because we are so good at continuously turning away from God!

All of this leads up to the parable of the barren fig tree which ends this commentary on sin, tragedy and repentance on a note of grace. A vineyard owner plants a fig tree and comes to look for figs and finds none. He unloads on the gardener about how he’s come looking for figs for three years and finds none: “Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” The gardener replies by begging for one more year. He asks for time to work the soil and fertilize it and then see if it will bear fruit. If it does, well and fine; if it does not, then cut it down.

It is tempting to allegorize this story and assign roles to the characters. Often we cast God in the “owner” role and Jesus in the “gardener” role; however, I’m not so sure that Jesus needs to protect the “fig tree” (whatever it represents) from an angry God who wants to give up on it.

I come from a land where fig trees grow. Now I’m no expert on them by any means, but I do know it takes 4-5 years for a fig tree to produce fruit. It strikes me as odd that the landowner would be so impatient. After all, he is also a vineyard owner and grape vines take 5-7 years to produce fruit. This guy should have patience written all over him! Instead, he condemns the poor fig tree before it has a chance … “Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?”

So, rather than cast the landowner as God … let’s pick this parable up and turn it around and look at it from another angle, shall we? Perhaps the impatient landowner … is us – humanity. Are we impatient? I know I am! The fig tree can be any situation or relationship which we expect to bear fruit. And don’t we sometimes get impatient about that? Especially when the relationships or situations are complicated or messy? Don’t get me wrong – I’m not implying that one should stay involved in a destructive relationship or situation at all. Sometimes cutting it down – ending something which is death dealing – is exactly what we need to do. But there are those times when cutting the fig tree down is not called for … at least not yet.

God in Christ, as the gardener, may be asking our patience with the situation or relationship. Let God dig around the roots, bring the nourishment of prayer and sacraments, and give it some time to see if this fig tree will bear fruit. If it does, well and good; if not, then you can cut it down.

There is a reminder in the parable that there will be a time of judgment – a time when cutting down a barren tree is the best option. Your fig tree may be a relationship that needs to end. It may be a toxic family you need to walk away from to move on and live your life fully. It may be a job situation which has grown intolerable and is not improving. There are plenty of examples of situations which will not bear fruit – at least not the fruit of the Spirit which brings life. However, the parable reminds us not to act in haste and be attentive to God’s leading and timing rather than our own anxiety and impatience.

A lifestyle of repentance and patience – day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute – is one which leads back to God. It is the means whereby we become open to God nourishment of our souls that we might bear the Spirit’s fruit of love, joy, peace, kindness, generosity, faithfulness and self-control.